


The Case of the Stolen Heart

by alexcat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 21,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/pseuds/alexcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson take on London's most famous unsolved murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Lestrade's Visit

**Author's Note:**

> As always, for Sara
> 
> Acknowledgements:
> 
> I’d like to thank Larry for being my sounding board and my beta reader for this story. I’d also like to thank Jenny for reading over the story and telling me she still loves my Watson. And huge thank you to Stephanie () for the artwork. Isn’t it great? 
> 
> Notes:
> 
> While the Jack the Ripper case is factual, my story is a fictional account of what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do to solve the case. I have stayed with the facts as much as possible while also trying to keep my Holmes and Watson as canon as possible. I, of course, based them on the original characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Ripper info is from several books and websites that you will find listed at the end. 
> 
> Go to [**this page**](http://www.casebook.org/victorian_london/maps.html) to view maps of Whitechapel. They will give you some idea of the locations of the murders and the layout of the area. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story. 
> 
> Alex
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/alexcat/media/cover1.jpg.html)

THE CASE OF THE STOLEN HEART 

Prologue – Introduction of the Subject 

 

October 1, 1888

Lestrade was knocking at the door of 221 Baker Street early that morning. I’d not even sent the boys out for the papers yet and Holmes was still abed. I’d heard him moving around late into the night so I went down for tea with Mrs. Hudson as not to bother his slumber and had just gone back upstairs when the inspector knocked on the door. 

“The landlady said you were in. Is he up?” He gestured with his head toward Holmes’ bedchamber. 

“Not yet. He was about his experiments last night until some ungodly hour. What brings you here so early, Inspector Lestrade?” 

“Have you read the morning papers?” 

“I was about to send one of the boys out for them.”

Lestrade pulled out one of the morning dailies. “There’s been two more. They were found about six this morning. Bad business this is, Dr. Watson. Cut their throats and slit their bellies, one of them anyway.” 

Lestrade looked shaken, which was unusual for the experienced policeman. I knew he meant there were more dead women in Whitechapel. The first had been a month ago and only made the news because she had been brutalized in a most horrid way by her killer. He’d killed another a week later in much the same fashion. 

“I think we may need Holmes’ help.”

Holmes had disregarded the whole story as uninteresting earlier in the week but perhaps I could persuade him to change his mind now that there were more victims. 

“Some at the Yard think he’s a doctor,” Lestrade leaned forward as he let this detail drop. “He has some skills with a knife, they say, skills that would make him a professional man.” 

“I’ll talk to Holmes.” 

 

**

~~~~~

 

Chapter One – Lestrade’s Visit 

Let me backtrack a bit to explain the fear that gripped the Whitechapel area in the East End of London in those dark days in the late summer and autumn of 1888. The Whitechapel district of London was a sea of poverty and filth with over seventy thousand people crowded into an area not any bigger than a square mile. There were immigrants who’d fled from Poland and other eastern European countries all crammed in so tightly that poverty and violence were a way of life. Murder was nothing new or even all that newsworthy for the area.

Lestrade’s presence told me that there was much more to these particular murders than the normal. 

He sat down and shifted uncomfortably as if his clothes itched. He clearly felt out of his element this time. 

“Why do they need Holmes to help solve the murders of a few unfortunates from the bad part of London?” I asked him. 

“Dr. Watson, have you read about them?”

“Just a cursory reading, I’m afraid. I read that they had their throats cut and were also sliced up a bit.”

“It’s more than that. Much more.”

I leaned forward and then sat back, not wanting to seem eager to hear the gory details that I was sure were about to be imparted to me. But I did want to hear them, whether it was simple curiosity or something more morbid. 

“He just cut the first one open and made a bit of a mess. Mary Ann Nichols was her name. She weren’t any more than a drunk and a prostitute but –” he broke off. “The next one was Annie Chapman. She was pretty much the same as Nichols except he – he cut her intestines and laid them on her shoulder and he removed and _took_ her female parts. Cut them out as slick as you please, like he did it all the time.”

I felt my face pale. I had seen many ugly and brutal things in my life but this sounded more horrid than most anything I’d encountered so far. 

“Scotland Yard has no suspects?” 

“We’ve got hundreds of them, just no idea which one is the man. If any of them is the man.”

“This is a little out of your area, isn’t it?” 

“It was but the last victim was in the London District. Besides, I have friends in H Division. I said I’d ask Holmes if he’d help.”

“I saw the letter in the paper. Was it right?” 

“He called himself Jack the Ripper.”

“Was it him?” 

“There was a second one in the same handwriting, this morning.”

“What did it say?” 

Lestrade held out a piece of paper, a copy of the card.

I read: 

_I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.  
Jack the Ripper_

“Is this what happened?” 

Lestrade nodded. 

“This man will be almost impossible to catch unless you can catch him in the act.” 

“That’s why they’ve sent me to talk to Holmes and to you too, of course,” he added as an afterthought. 

The bedroom door opened and Holmes came into the room. He was still in his pyjamas and robe but his hair was combed so I knew he’d been up for a bit, long enough to make himself presentable anyway. He’d most likely heard every word Lestrade had said as well. 

“Good morning, dear Lestrade. What brings you here to Baker Street so early in the day?”

“I came on behalf of the police, sir. I, that is, we would like you to take a look at some murders we’re having a bit of trouble with.” 

I almost smiled at Lestrade’s subservient attitude. He’d not always treated Holmes this way. He’d thought Holmes a fool to begin with but that soon changed as Holmes had helped him solve several cases, despite Lestrade’s disdain. 

“What murders would those be? Those unfortunate ladies of Whitechapel?”

“Why yes. We had two more last night and they were worse than the ones before.”

“The other two ladies were murdered too, correct? If so, then how can these be worse?” 

Lestrade proceeded to tell both of us how they were worse, detailing how the fourth woman had been gutted and had her nose cut off, had her female organs removed as well as one of her kidneys. Even Holmes paled a little at Lestrade’s description and this was the man who was beating a corpse when I met him. 

“Why would you think I can find him?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t if you can or not, sir, but I’m fairly sure that we can’t.”

“Why are the police so dead set in finding him? The women he’s killed are not important members of society.” 

I knew then that Holmes was going to join the investigation or more correctly, Holmes was going to investigate these murders on his own at Lestrade’s behest. He really didn’t care so much about the women but there was a small sense of morality in him that often defended those who were shunned or scorned by proper society. Besides, it might be a challenge for him, something to relieve his boredom. 

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer Holmes’ question and realized that he had no answer. “It’s our job,” was all he managed to come up with and I suspect that as close to the truth as he could figure it out. 

“Where are these last two women? I shall need to examine them for myself. I should also like to see the letter that you told Watson about, the real one, not a copy.” 

“I’ll send a cab for you and Watson in an hour. I need to make arrangements.” Lestrade got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.” 

“I haven’t solved your murders yet, Lestrade. Perhaps you’ll have no need to thank me at the end of the day.” 

After Lestrade left, I turned to Holmes. “This is not going to be easy.” 

“I have no doubt that you are right, Watson. Even so, we shall give it our best.” 

And so we began one of our strangest cases. 

*  
~~~~~


	2. Two for One

Chapter Two – Two for One 

Holmes was dressed and ready in a matter of minutes. We hired a cab to take us to where the scene of last night’s first monstrosity. When we arrived, there were people milling about, many people but the crowd was still somewhat subdued. 

Berner Street did not look so menacing in the light of day. It was filthy, with rubbish littering the ground but until we saw the blood on the ground, it seemed like any other street in Whitechapel. 

We listened to two men who claimed they were witnesses and indeed, the police believed that one of them had interrupted the killer before he finished his ghastly chore, thus leaving Liz Striker not mutilated like the two before her, but not any less dead either. 

She had been seen alive at 12:45 a.m. and found dead a mere fifteen minutes later by Louis Diemschutz as he drove his cart into the yard. The man swore there had been someone or something there that spooked his pony but he’d not seen anyone. Anyone alive. He’d found the body of Elizabeth Striker on the ground instead and immediately sought help in a nearby club. 

By this time, the crowd in the street was beginning to get rowdy and loud, shouting obscenities about the lack of progress on the murders. They’d been angry here in the East End for some months since a labor protest had been put down forcefully by the police. A series of unsolved murders just added fuel to the already burning fires of unrest. 

Holmes poked around on the ground for a few minutes and motioned for me to follow him. We got back in our cab and visited the scene of the second murder. Catherine Eddowes had been discovered only forty-five minutes after the Striker woman. This body was actually inside the London Police district and involved Lestrade’s Scotland Yard branch. 

The killer more than made up for not getting to carve up Liz Strider when he killed Catherine Eddowes. He cut her throat, disemboweled her as well as cutting her face almost beyond recognition then he got to the grisly work of taking some souvenirs with him. He’d taken her womb and one of her kidneys. 

It was only after we had looked around this scene that we were told of the bloody apron found not so far away on Goulston Street. It looked as if it he’d used it to wipe his hands. One of the last witnesses who’d seen Eddowes said she’d been wearing a white apron. 

As we stood and looked at the apron as it still lay there, Holmes asked Lestrade, who had joined us by now, a question. 

“What was written on this wall? I can see where it’s been wiped clean recently.” 

Lestrade looked rather uncomfortable. “Nothing, I’m sure.” 

Holmes stood up straight, looked at me and headed for our cab. I followed. Lestrade stopped us by the time we reached the door. 

“The inspector decided it needed to be removed so as not to incite riots. The people are getting unruly again like they did a few months ago and no one wants that.” 

“Then tell me what it said. Or I shall let _you_ figure this out all on your own.” 

Lestrade took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Holmes. He opened it and showed it to me. 

_"The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing"_

Below it, he’d written it this way: _"The Juwes are not the men That Will be Blamed for nothing"_

“Which was it?” Holmes asked.

“I did not see it. The first officer wrote it the first way then DC Halse changed it.”

“Was this apron found when the body was?” 

“No. It was found maybe an hour or so later.” 

Holmes walked back to the murder scene and bent down, touching the bloody ground. His hand came away sticky. I handed him a handkerchief and folded it carefully and placed it back in my pocket when he was done. I had learned to keep anything he picked up or touched at a crime scene. One never knew what he’d deduce from the smallest of clues. 

We went back to the cab, Lestrade with us. 

“I want to see the bodies.” 

We saw Elizabeth Striker first. Holmes asked questions as he moved her this way and that, looking carefully at the wounds and at the cut throat. I took some notes as if I were doing the post mortem myself. I wanted to keep the details close in case we needed them again. We would only get one chance to see these poor women before they were buried and I knew we needed to get as much information as possible. 

Striker had died from having her throat cut and little else was done to her. We saw no signs of struggle at all in her hands and body. Any bruises we saw were already old and yellowing. Unfortunately, many women in Whitechapel sported bruises from boyfriends, husbands and the men who paid for their favors. They often led brutal lives and this one, at least, had come to a brutal end also. 

It was time to see Eddowes and I knew from the scene that this one was not going to be pleasant. I was glad that I’d had only some toast and tea for breakfast. 

As it turned out, I did not manage to keep them down either. I have been in war and have seen many things in my work as a surgeon but the thing I saw on the table was no longer human. The killer had made up for being interrupted with Striker and taken his rage out on poor Catherine Eddowes. 

He’d slaughtered her, almost cutting her head off then mutilating her face as well as ripping her open like an animal, taking parts for his own purposes. I ran to the sink and, blushing, returned to take notes a few moments later. Holmes did not comment. 

We found no signs of her fighting him. I decided that perhaps he’d subdued her and the others prior to killing them. It would be a mercy if it were so. 

Finally we left, Lestrade escorting us home.

“So can you help us?” Lestrade looked expectantly at Holmes once we were back at Baker Street. 

“I am not sure what it is that I am to do.”

“Can you help us find this man, this Jack the Ripper?”

Holmes didn’t say anything for several long minutes then he looked at Lestrade almost as if he’d forgotten the policeman was there. 

“What on earth are you going to do with him if we do find him?” 

Lestrade had no answer. He rose and nodded to Holmes and said his good byes to me and left us, closing the door loudly as he let himself out into the street. 

*

~~~~~


	3. No Rest for the Weary

Chapter Three – No rest for the Weary

“Holmes, how are we to find this man?” I had thought of little else the rest of the day but Holmes had not been in any mood to talk about it. He’d read the papers silently then played his violin, much to my and Mrs. Hudson’s dismay. 

On the best of days, his playing was very nice. He could have hired himself out as a chamber musician. But on days that he was upset or was deep in thought, the thing sounded like the catgut strings were being removed from the cat as it lived. 

He finally stopped sometime late in the afternoon. That’s when I asked him the question. He still didn’t answer me immediately. 

“I do not know. We know they did not fight him but the women were all prostitutes and were used to being ill treated so maybe that means little except that perhaps they did not suffer greatly as he appears to have killed them before he did more.”

“I thought the same.” 

Holmes raised his head and smiled at me. “Always thinking, are you?” 

“Now and again, Holmes.” 

“I think our man is fairly young. The witnesses place him in his twenties and of medium height, about your height perhaps.” 

“That could be half of London.” 

Holmes raised a brow at me. “It could even be you, Watson. Lestrade says the police think he’s a doctor.” 

“Perhaps it was you. You’re no stranger to such things. You were beating a corpse in the medical school when I met you, if you’ll remember.” 

“I daresay it was neither of us but who knows what Lestrade and his band of buffoons at Scotland Yard might come up with? I do know one thing. He is not done. He will strike again.” 

I nodded, sure of that too. This man had a taste for killing and it seemed to fill some awful, inhuman need in him. The only way he’d ever stop would be by force. I wondered if Holmes and I were going to have to be the force that stopped him. 

When the afternoon papers came, we read the stories about the killer, Jack the Ripper they were calling him as he’d supposedly named himself. I had my doubts about the letter in the paper. But the name fit all too well. 

I normally kept office hours for my surgery but I had promised that I would work at the hospital that evening so I left Holmes alone. It was a busy night and passed quickly. I was able to leave about five in the morning and was hoping to grab a bite when I got home then get a nap before Holmes arose and took up the rest of my day with our new investigation. 

Alas, he was waiting for me when I got in. 

“It’s not yet daylight and I have a cab coming to take us to Berner Street. We shall walk from there to Mitre Square. If we are lucky, we can accomplish this before daylight is full upon us.”

I sighed and went to change clothes. There was little use to argue. He’d have his way in the end so I might as well go with him without protest now. It would save time.

We rode to Whitechapel in silence. I was tired and may have even dozed a bit. It was indeed still dark when we got there. I stayed in the cab while Sherlock got out at the scene where Liz Striker was found. He milled about for a bit then came back to the cab. We then rode to the last scene and he did the same. 

I was ready to be home and to try to get some sleep but we kept going, visiting the first and second murder sites then going to the police station to look at files and photographs from these murders too. 

I say we but I must admit that I was too exhausted to pay much attention to anything at that point. It was early afternoon when we finally got back home. I said nothing to anyone, just went to my bedchamber and fell across the bed still dressed. It was dark when I awoke. 

Holmes was sitting beside the window looking out into the street. He did not turn when I came into the room. 

“Mrs. Hudson has dinner warm for you downstairs. She said just to ring and she’d bring it up.” 

I nodded and rang. Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs with a tray and set it on the table for me. 

“Mr. Holmes, I brought you some tea.”

He absently thanked her while I sat down and began to eat. 

“Have you heard about the awful business in Whitechapel?” Mrs. Hudson read the papers as voraciously as Holmes and I did. 

“We have indeed, Mrs. Hudson,” I answered her as I poured my tea and buttered the warm rolls she’d brought. 

“I hope they find the man who did it. No one deserves to die so horribly. No one.”

I certainly agreed with that but I did not tell her that Holmes was working on the case though I suspect she knew. Little got by our landlady. Holmes griped quite a bit about her being nosy or her trying to make him eat or any other trivial little thing he could come up with but I suspect he secretly liked that she was concerned for his welfare. I know I was pleased that she was concerned for both of us. 

*

~~~~~


	4. Questions and Answers

Chapter Four – Questions and Answers 

Lestrade was at our door again early the next day. He brought more information and this time, he brought an original card from ‘Saucy Jack’ for us to see and read. It was written in a decent hand and I could read it easily. 

_I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again._

_Jack the Ripper_

It seemed to refer to the earlier letter and to the murder of Catherine Eddowes, in which he cut off her ear. It had fallen out of her clothes when she was being cleaned in the morgue. This card was sent to the Central News Agency, as same as the first one. Holmes took the card and smelled of it and then looked at it front and back for several long minutes without saying anything at all. 

He handed it back to Lestrade. “It could be anyone who reads the early editions of the paper writing these.”

“I know sir, but it’s all we have. Or at least the best of what we have. ”

Holmes nodded and handed it back. 

“Are there any witnesses?”

“None that saw the murders but three fellows claim they saw the dead woman with a man about fifteen minutes before she was found. I can get you their names and addresses if you like.”

“I’d like to talk to the first policeman on the scene too, if I might. I didn’t talk to anyone yesterday.” 

“Would you like to see them at the station?”

“In Whitechapel? No. I think not. Perhaps Scotland Yard instead.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade left us to arrange for the interviews and I went downstairs for tea. Holmes was saying very little and I knew that meant he had something on his mind, though I didn’t know if it had to do with the case yet or not. 

He was never easy to get on with even at the best of times but he could be rather aggravating when he was in one of his moods. I knew there was no use in asking him anything. He’d talk when and if he wanted to. Nothing could make him do so before he was ready. 

I had some patients scheduled at my office in the afternoon anyway. I tried to keep up my practice as well as aiding Holmes in his investigations but sometimes it was difficult, there being only so many hours in a day and a human need to use part of those hours for sleeping. 

Even my patients were chattering about Jack the Ripper. Such brutality brings out the curiosity in people, if nothing else. Of course, they all asked if I thought he was a doctor and did I know anyone who’d do such a thing. 

Of course I didn’t know anyone like that and I told them so. I did not tell them that I expected that I’d meet him in the next few weeks as Holmes and I searched for him. I did not look forward to it at all. 

I arrived home late and as usual, Mrs. Hudson had dinner for me. 

“I’m sure he’s all right but I’ve not heard a peep out of him all day, not even his footsteps in the apartment,” she told me as she poured my tea. She worried about Holmes as if he were her own son sometimes. So did I, for that matter, but it usually did neither of us any good. Holmes was Holmes and neither of us was likely to change him in the least.

I ate at her table rather than go up just yet. Mrs. Hudson and I talked about the weather, my day and hers, anything to keep from having to talk about Holmes. 

Finally I could stall no longer and excused myself to go to our apartments. 

Holmes was sitting by the window again, looking out into the street. 

“I’m home.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

“Mrs. Hudson says you’ve not stirred all day.”

“Does she have so little to do that she has time to spy on me?” 

“You know she worries.” 

He made a rather rude sound. 

“We are to go to the police station in the morning. There are three witnesses who we shall talk to as well as the first policeman on the scene at the Eddowes murder. I am also planning to speak to the doctor who did the post mortem on Miss Eddowes.”

“Did Lestrade come by here then?” 

“No. He sent a message.”

“Have you decided why someone is doing these things?” 

“I have some idea but I do not want to speak of it yet.” 

I nodded. This was not unlike Holmes. He often worked things out in his head all the way to the ending scenario before he enlightened me.

I went to bed early, still suffering from my lack of sleep in the previous days. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. 

Morning took us to the police station and into an interview room set up by Inspector Lestrade. 

There had been three men who saw a man and a woman supposed to be Miss Eddowes standing at the corner of Duke Street and Church Passage. The men were Joseph Lavender, Joseph Levy and Harry Harris. 

“So tell us what you saw, Mr. Lavender,” Holmes leaned across the table.

Lavender did not seem to be very intimidated by us. Perhaps he was simply exhausted from being asked over and over again what he’d seen that night. Perhaps he thought we thought him a suspect. 

“I saw them and he was shabby, maybe about thirty and five foot nine in height. He had fair hair and a fair moustache. He was wearing a red neckerchief and cap with a peak.” 

“Was he a sailor?”

“Maybe… the coppers asked me that and then told me he wasn’t when I said he might have been.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

Lavender shook his head. “I don’t know that I would, sir. I really just got a glance.” 

The other two men had little to add, nothing as a matter of fact. Levy smirked as if he knew something but I think he was just enjoying being the center of attention, sort of like those who confess to every crime that comes up just for the attention. Harry Harris said he knew nothing and refused to say more. 

These three were Jewish immigrants and perhaps they simply did not wish to become involved out of fear that they’d be blamed simply because of who they were. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened in London. Many of the residents of Whitechapel were Russian and Polish Jews who’d escaped one persecution only to find another sort of persecution on the dingy streets of London.

Constable Watkins had found the body and he said he was walking his beat on Duke Street at 1:30 and saw nothing but found her at 1:45 on his next pass through the area. 

Next we talked to Dr. Brown, the police surgeon who did the post mortem. He said she’d been killed then cut up and that he was sure she was killed right where she lay. He said the apron piece found on Goulston Street had been part of an apron that Miss Eddowes was wearing. Evidently the killer had cut it with his knife to clean either his hands or his knife. 

That was it for our day. We went to a small restaurant for dinner and arrived home rather late, having actually discussed the case a bit at dinner. 

It would be a few weeks before there was anything new other than accusations and arrests of men who had solid alibis. There were many of those before the month was out. 

*  
~~~~~


	5. From Hell

Chapter Five – From Hell 

Things quieted down in Whitechapel over the next few weeks. I worked in the surgery long hours each day while Holmes did some small cases that did not require my presence. We read the morning and evening papers, which still featured much about the Ripper, a lot of it speculation and sensationalism designed to sell more papers. 

Then all hell broke loose again. 

George Lusk was the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee and his name and address were plastered all over the area on posters asking for information on the identity of the murderer. He got hundreds of letters and such from people who needed or wanted to be involved somehow. One of the packages he got was very strange. On October 16th, a package was delivered to his home. Mr. Lusk opened the package and found two things: a letter and half of a kidney. For some reason that I simply cannot understand, he decided this was a hoax and started to toss it out. He, instead, put them in his desk drawer for safekeeping. 

The next day, the Vigilance Committee met and Mr. Lusk brought out his package and showed it to the other men. They did not believe it a prank and convinced him to show it to a Dr. Frederick Wiles and they headed to his office. His assistant was there though the doctor was not and told them the kidney looked human to him. 

It hit the papers on the 19th and we got invited by Charles Warren, head of the Metropolitan Police, to take a look at both the letter and the kidney. The letter was crude and the grammar was awful, not like the ones Holmes and I had seen before. 

Here is the text of the letter: 

_"From hell_

_Mr Lusk_

_Sor  
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women preserved it for you the other piece I fried and ate it was very nice. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a while longer_

_signed  
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk"_

And the kidney… 

It was a left kidney of something. I knew that Dr. Wiles’ medical student said it was human as did several other doctors but I wasn’t even sure it was that. It has been my experience that pig kidneys look quite like human ones. It had been preserved in wine too but that means nothing at all. 

We were looking at the kidney in the Police Station.

“So Holmes, is it a hoax?”

“The letter most likely is and I must assume the kidney is also.” 

“Why do you say so?” 

“It’s too convenient, my dear fellow. And too sensational. It’s as if the whole thing is being staged to impress someone.”

“The letters or the killings?” 

Holmes deliberately did not answer me. 

I gave my opinion that the kidney was that of a pig. Some of the policemen seemed disappointed. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps they’d gotten caught up in the macabre excitement of Saucy Jack and his awful actions. Perhaps they simply thought any clue would bring them a step closer to finding him and stopping his evil work. 

One thing I did know was that we had not come up with any suspects yet. We’d read the notes from several interviews and even sat in on some interviews but none of the men the police talked to was the killer. The murderer was still a complete mystery. 

When we got home, a very agitated young man was waiting for us outside. 

“Are ye Master Holmes?” He asked me and I shook my head and nodded toward Holmes.”

“What can I do for you?” Holmes stepped down from our cab onto the street in front of 221 Baker Street. 

“It’s me Da… he tends bar at the Prancing Pony and the owner has accused him of stealing from the till.”

“Does he steal from the till?” 

The boy looked angry at Holmes’ question. “My Da’s no thief!” 

Holmes smiled. “Come up then and we’ll see if we can help you.” 

We all went up to our rooms and Mrs. Hudson offered tea. The boy declined but Holmes had her bring tea and some finger foods. I knew it was because the boy looked underfed and rather shabbily dressed. 

After the tea was brought, the boy gave in and had a cup, along with some food. I ate too so he’d not feel that we felt sorry for him, even though we did. 

“So tell me about your father.” 

“My Da’s name is James Murphy and he is the barman at the Prancing Pony. His boss, Mr. Martin, said Da is stealing from him. He says he’s going to have him sent away for it. Mr. Holmes, Da’s an honest man and I don’t know what we’ll do if he’s sent away. There’s just him and us, my brother and me. Our Ma died when we were little and Da’s looked out for us all by his self since then.”

“Dr. Watson and I shall look into it. We’ll see that your father does not get sent away. He may have to find another place to pour drinks but he’ll not be sent away. What is your name, son?” 

“I’m Jimmy Murphy, named for him, I am.” 

And he was gone. 

Holmes looked at me. “The owner is either spending his money on women or is gambling his money away and is blaming Mr. Murphy to keep his business partners or his wife from finding out.”

“I’d think so. Shall we find out which?”

“Perhaps you could look into it. I have some other matters to take care of.”

I raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t ask. I knew he’d tell me if he wanted me to know and no amount of questioning could get it out of him if he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Very well. I shall have a drink at the Prancing Pony first. The boy could be wrong about his father too.” 

I called for a cab to deliver me to the pub and set about dressing for an evening of tossing back a few pints. That was something I actually looked forward to. 

* 

~~~~~


	6. The Prancing Pony Diversion

Chapter Six – The Prancing Pony Diversion 

The Prancing Pony was a rather nice little pub and I spotted Murphy right away, for young Jimmy looked just like a miniature of him. I got a pint for myself and settled in to watch but I was soon drawn into a game of cards. It was a friendly enough game but I never do know quite when to stop betting so I left a few hours later with only enough to pay my cab when I got home. 

James Murphy was indeed a nice seeming fellow. The patrons of the pub seemed quite fond of him and gave him a good word as he moved about the tables, delivering drinks along with his one little barwench, a lovely blond who looked as if she belonged in a drawing room instead of a pub. I could not see any foolery between her and Murphy or any of the patrons either. 

Was she the owner’s lady? I hadn’t found out but I did ask who owned the place and got an earful from one of the men playing cards. 

“Martin? Why he’s a bastard if ever there was one! He never lets us keep tabs and makes poor Katie and James pay out of their pockets if there’s not enough money to account for every pint by the end of the night,” one middle-aged fellow with ruddy cheeks and rough hands said. 

“Donnie’s right. He ain’t got a drop of good in ‘im!” This was from the bespectacled shopkeeper who was winning most of the hands. “He cheats on his wife too!” 

This made my ears prick up. “Lots of men do that.” 

“Not one with a wife as pretty as his. Looks like a princess, she does,” the third man at the table chimed in. “My Molly says she’s as nice as she is pretty too. Molly does some cleaning for her sometimes and she says Mrs. Martin is a real lady.” 

“I’d never cheat on my wife if I had one,” I laughed. “I don’t fancy being hit on the head with a frying pan!” 

They all laughed and we moved onto another subject. I’d paid up what I owed the barman and gave the girl a tip too and headed home with my empty pockets and my suspicions about Mr. Martin. 

Holmes was out when I got home and Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed. I decided to read the evening papers and lit a few lamps to brighten up the place. Holmes could sit in the dark for hours but not me. I went through the papers, reading everything I could find about the Whitechapel murders. There was nothing new and I had not really expected anything but it never hurt to check. 

I was tired from another long day and a bit too much to drink so I went to bed about ten and didn’t move until the next morning when Holmes woke me. He was just coming in and not being at all quiet about it. I assumed that this was his way of making sure I was awake and ready to be of service. Sometimes he annoyed me to no end but I usually didn’t mind. There was never a dull moment with Holmes about and he certainly needed someone to keep him out of trouble most of the time, someone who thought of the practical things, like paying the rent on time or fetching tobacco when our supplies were getting low.

“Good morning, Watson. What did you find out last night?” 

“Murphy is well thought of at the pub and Martin, the owner, is despised by the patrons. Martin has a beautiful wife who he’s cheating on and she’s also well thought of. Evidently one of the patrons’ wives does her cleaning and says she’s a fine person.”

“Claire Martin is a daughter of a wealthy man. Our Mr. Martin thinks to raise his status through her.” So he had been making enquiries. 

“So why would he cheat on her?” 

“Maybe she’s _too_ ladylike for his taste?” 

“Holmes, a practical man would not do anything to wreck his good name with her family.” 

“Since when are men practical? How many men have you known ruled by their lusts or their greed instead of their good sense?” 

I nodded. “You’re right.” 

“His father-in-law loaned him the money to buy the pub.”

“Why would a woman cost him so much?” 

“Maybe she’s blackmailing him or maybe someone else is.” 

“I guess that’s what I need to find out. Where did you find out who his wife is, by the way?”

“I went to visit my brother and he knows someone who knows everyone, it seems, and he got the information for me.” 

I was surprised that Holmes would visit Mycroft for such a small case. He tried not to ask his brother for favors if he could avoid doing so. It didn’t even occur to me that he might have gone to Mycroft for another reason all together. 

Holmes hired his boys to watch Mr. Martin and report back to us what they found out. He laughingly called them the Baker Street Irregulars, his band of ruffian children, but they would do anything for ‘Mr. ‘olmes,’ as they called him. He never hesitated to throw them a few pence for their favors and that went a long way with them. 

In two days time, we got a report from them. Mr. Martin had been seen riding around in a carriage in a random sort of way until he picked up a young man on the street corner. He drove the man around the block and then let him out at the same corner. The boys followed the man as he went to a house occupied by a spinster lady named Agnes Wayne. 

Agnes Wayne was no doddering old spinster though. Agnes Wayne was in her mid-forties and looked perhaps thirty-five. She had a reputation as a woman who knew what she wanted and got it, then discarded it when she was through with it. Apparently Mr. Martin was one of the things she’d discarded and she was extorting money from him to keep quiet about the whole thing. 

“So how can we fix this so James Murphy doesn’t end up without a job?” I still was more concerned for James Murphy and his Jimmy than for the other people involved in the little drama. 

“Perhaps Agnes Wayne can be persuaded to stop blackmailing Martin?” Holmes said. 

“Or maybe Mr. Martin needs to be scared into the truth.”

“Maybe someone in Her Majesty’s Service should speak to Agnes Wayne.”

“Mycroft?” I asked. 

“Me.” 

“You?” I knew he could disguise himself to be almost anyone but I was uneasy about this. 

“I can have Mycroft verify me if someone asks.” 

The plan was that Sherlock would simply go to Agnes and explain that Mr. Martin was doing some undercover work for the Crown and that there would be dire consequences for anyone who caused a scandal for any reason concerning him. She would be advised to cut her losses and forget she ever knew him. 

Tomorrow we would carry it out. 

*   
~~~~~


	7. Another Missive

Chapter Seven – Another Missive 

Holmes was gone when I got up. I had no idea what he looked like when he went out. His disguises usually fooled even me. I had a leisurely breakfast and read the dailies in his absence. 

Ripper fever, as I had begun to think of it, was still high. The ‘From Hell’ letter had been splattered all over the front pages of nearly every paper in London and its awful contents had everyone talking. The thoughts of cannibalism sold many papers in the days following the letter’s publication. All of London waited with baited breath to find out who the Ripper was. He had to be some mad yet brilliant man to do the things he’d done almost under the nose of the police and yet remain undetected. 

Would we find him? I had my doubts. 

I hoped Holmes was able to solve young Jimmy Murphy’s problem today. There was little I could do about any of it until he returned home. I went to my office up in the morning to see patients and had a few house calls to make as well so it was early evening before I got back to Baker Street. 

Holmes was there when I arrived. He was still disguised as a dandified gentleman. 

“There you are, Watson. Mr. Martin is not going to make any more problems for James Murphy or his son. A rather well dressed and well spoken member of Her Majesty’s Service spoke with both Martin and Miss Wayne and they will no longer trouble anyone with their schemes, under threat of jail and exposure to the press.” 

“You are a bold man, Holmes, passing yourself off as a servant of the crown.”

“As it turned out, my brother said that Miss Wayne had many more secrets than just her affection for Mr. Martin and she was rather easy to persuade as her own brother is interested in politics.”

“How will Murphy know?”

“Well, it turns out that Mr. Martin stopped by the Prancing Pony and told Mr. Murphy that the missing money turned out to be a bookkeeping error on the part of his accountant and that Mr. Murphy had nothing further to worry about.” 

I clapped Holmes on the back. “Well done!” 

He cleaned his face and changed his clothes and was once again Sherlock Holmes. 

“Holmes, why did you visit Mycroft?” 

“I wanted to ask him a few questions?”

“About the killer?”

“Not exactly but about something related to the killer. I figured he would have more knowledge than Scotland Yard. I have not often found them to be as brilliant as they find themselves.” 

I had to laugh at that. It was an understatement to say the least. Holmes often thought that Scotland Yard made such a mess at a crime that no one could possibly glean any evidence or information from anything once they’d been in the vicinity. They touched everything, moved everything, stepped on all the footprints and generally made Holmes’ work twice as hard as it had to be. It truly was a miracle that they ever solved a crime.

“What would that be?” 

“Just an idea for now. I will inform you later if it works out to have any merit.”

I nodded. That was all I would find out for now. Holmes would tell me when he was ready and that was that. 

The day went by with little more from the Ripper though the notes and letters kept flying into the police station and to the newspapers. Unrest was growing and people wanted answers. They wanted the crown to offer a reward for information on the killer or killers and I even read some flyers and newspapers asking for any information, even from accomplices of the killer. 

I didn’t think he had any accomplices and I didn’t think he’d get caught unless he wanted to. I wasn’t altogether thrilled with our involvement in the whole thing either. I did not see it as a feather in our cap at all. 

On October 24, a note arrived in the post addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, 221B Baker Street, London. It had no return address on it and the postmark was a little blurred but it appeared to have been mailed at our local post office. 

_Do you thnk you can stop me – Il sind some red to_  
Thay all must DIE! Mor fun fr me.  
Nd you cant stop ME. 

_Signed_  
Yor frind in Whitchapl   


Holmes opened it and handed it to me. 

“At least he didn’t send us a body part. I suppose we should let Scotland Yard know about it and I’d like to compare it to the kidney letter. The misspellings seem as contrived as those did and I want to see if the handwriting matches.”

I sent a boy to Lestrade with a message straightaway. The policeman was there before I thought the boy had time to find him. 

“I have come to take the letter,” he said as he came in the door.

“That’s not going to happen, my dear Lestrade. I do require you to bring Mr. Lusk’s letter here so Watson and I might compare the writing.” 

Lestrade looked like he might explode for a moment then he nodded. “May I read it, sir?” 

Holmes handed him the letter. He read it and handed it back. 

“At least he didn’t send you any body parts, did he?” 

“Sadly, no. I might have gotten a clue from one.” 

We went to the station and compared letters. The handwriting closely matched Mr. Lusk’s letter. Even though it told us the same person sent both letters, we still had no idea who this man was. He was said to be many things: doctor, butcher, madman, genius. Perhaps he was all of them and more. He was also invisible when he set about his evil business on the streets of London. Perhaps if we knew how he was invisible, we could catch him. 

“Perhaps the head of the investigations for the Metropolitan Police and the City Police can give us a better idea of where the police are in their investigation,” I said to Holmes. 

“That we are given access to most everything they have tells me that they are completely without real suspects or any real idea of who this man is.”

“I suppose so but I think we could still get something from interviewing Commissioner Anderson at the Metropolitan.”

“If you wish but I will not waste my time.” 

“What will you be doing?” 

“I have a few ideas,” was all he’d say.

*  
~~~~~


	8. A Chat with the Police

Chapter Eight – A Chat with the Police 

I set up a time to talk to Assistant Commissioner Anderson. He knew who Holmes was and seemed to have no objections to our investigation even if he did not seem overly enthusiastic. 

“Are there suspects that Holmes and I do not know of?” 

“We have many suspects from our door to door canvassing. And witnesses.” 

I was surprised. I’d heard little about witnesses except the men that Holmes and I had already talked with about the Eddowes murder. 

“They were men who turned up after the last murder. They saw him but one said he couldn’t turn in a fellow Jew.” 

“Can you name the witnesses?”

“I believe you already talked to them.”

“The gentlemen who saw Miss Eddowes with the mustached man?”

“Yes, they gave us a fellow named Aaron Kominski. There’s not enough evidence to arrest him but I’m certain he did it.”

“Why?” 

“He’s violent and hates women.”

I almost laughed out loud. That described about half of the men in the area at least. 

“Have you talked to him?” 

“Yeah but he seems to be sort of not all there.” 

“And you think he’s a murderous mastermind?” 

“How much mind does it take to kill four women?” 

“Out in the open with people all around? And not get caught? Four times? I’d say it takes no small measure of intelligence.” 

He disagreed with me, leaving me little else to say. I decided that maybe Holmes was right and these men had little information that would shed any light on this dark matter at all. I did not see Lestrade in the station as I left, which was just as well for I am sure I’d have given him an earful about what silliness he was working under. I’d still had a small amount of confidence that the police might be able to solve the murder or might have information helpful to us in Holmes’ investigation but after my interview with one of the main policemen in charge, I decided that we probably had a better chance than they did and that our chances were slim indeed. 

Holmes was back from his mysterious errand when I got back. He did refrain from saying I told you so when I informed him of my talk with Mr. Anderson. But just barely. I could tell he wanted to say it. 

To say this whole thing was grating on my nerves would be too mild a statement. I felt as if we were dogs chasing our tails and that this man was sitting back, watching both us and the police and laughing in maniacal glee. 

“I think I shall take a few days and just be a doctor. We are getting nowhere and I am not feeling myself.”

“We will solve this. Of that, I am sure.” 

“Before he strikes again?” 

Holmes shook his head. “I don’t think so. He is not done with us yet.” 

“And you think you can catch him in the act?” 

“I didn’t say that. I said he will strike again.”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure I can look at any more mutilated women. It’s almost as if he does it just for the show. Or so it seems to me.”

Holmes looked at me oddly. “Sometimes you’re more perceptive than I think. Did Assistant Commissioner Anderson tell you why this man Kominski was a suspect?”

“Because he’s crazy.” 

“Half of London is crazy,” was all he said. 

I spent the rest of that day making house calls and checking on patients. I felt better for it too. At least they were breathing and I felt useful again. Oftentimes in working with Holmes, I felt as if I were superfluous, that he really didn’t need me for anything. But then again, sometimes navigating the real world was beyond his capabilities. I was more than helpful then and sometimes, he found me and my little pistol useful to have around as well. 

I could not get the attitude of the police off my mind. Were they even trying? I had to wonder how much they really cared. The women who were murdered were common prostitutes. They had no influence, indeed they were almost invisible in the society in which they lived. How much did it matter to the rest of London? 

It was not my place nor the police’s place to decide whose death was worth investigating. It was their job to try to solve these killings. From what Anderson said, one candidate was as good as another to them as long as they had a man they could point to as the killer. 

These thoughts occupied my mind all day long as I went about my business, making me look over my own shoulder more than once to make sure no one was following. Would my death be worth investigating?

There had been no murders for several weeks and anticipation was beginning to build in all of London but especially in the Whitechapel area. While everyone hoped the killings were over, there was also that morbid need to have another one, another awful tidbit for the papers and the common folks to talk about. Perhaps such horror made them feel lucky that while their lives were far from perfect, they were certainly a lot better than those poor souls who met their end with Jack the Ripper. 

When I arrived home, Holmes was not there but Mrs. Hudson met me at the bottom of the steps. 

“There’s someone to see you in my apartment. He wouldn’t go up; insisted on seeing you here.”

That seemed very odd, to her too obviously, but she didn’t seem scared or alarmed so I nodded and followed her into her sitting room. 

There among her neat and tidy knick knacks and bric a brac sat Mycroft Holmes, reading the paper. 

I’d only seen him one time before and he was not as friendly as Holmes, if that is possible. He was as tall as Holmes but where my friend was slim, Mycroft was anything but. He was large, not in the soft way that men get when they do nothing other than sitting but in an imposing way, as if he could break me into small pieces if he wanted to. 

He nodded when I came in and said, “Watson” by way of hello. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

*  
~~~~~


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine – My Vacation 

Mycroft Holmes looked at me hard for a moment and finally said, “Tell him to stop.”

“Tell who to stop what?” I was not being flippant. I really had no idea what he meant. 

“Tell my brother to leave the Ripper case to the police. No one will solve it because it is not what it seems.”

“You do know how much he listens to me?” I asked him. 

“About as much as he does to me. I wanted to warn him anyway. I suspect he already knows but I had to try.” 

“I’ll give him your message. Why didn’t you tell him this when he came to see you?”

“Sherlock has not been to see me in quite a while. Now I must go.” He rose from the table and shook my hand. I said nothing about the lies Holmes had told me. 

He thanked Mrs. Hudson for her hospitality and left through the back door. 

I went up to our rooms and waited for Holmes to return home. When he did, I said nothing until he’d put away his hat and coat. 

“We had a visitor today.”

“And what did Mycroft want?” 

I didn’t even bother to ask how he knew. I had more important things to say. “He says he’s not seen you in quite some time.” 

“He did?”

“He also said to tell you to leave the murders alone, that they are not what they seem.”

“I already knew that. But I don’t think I can leave them alone.”

“What did he mean, Holmes?” 

“I will tell you in time, Watson. It is not something that you need to know at this time.”

Fury burned through me. I hated him when he did this to me, deciding what I needed to know or not know. My biggest desire at that moment was to punch him in the face. 

But I did not do so. I got my own hat and coat and left and did not return for a few days. I was not quite as destitute as I was when Holmes and I took lodgings together so I had the coin for a room in a nice hotel for a few days. I sent a note to Mrs. Hudson, letting her know that I was fine and just had enough of Holmes for a few days and that I would be back home as soon as the anger wore off. 

I found some card games to enjoy and even a lovely young lady to have dinner with on the nights that I was away from Baker Street. Whitechapel and those grisly murders seemed a world away from where I was. I felt like never going back. 

But I was not without a sense of responsibility so in a few days I returned home. Mrs. Hudson was thrilled to have me back. Holmes, it seemed, had locked himself in for the entire time that I was gone and refused food, drink and all contact with the outside world. It was not the first time he’d done such a thing but it was alarming every time that he did it. 

I unlocked the door but he’d put something against it to keep anyone from coming in. 

“Holmes, open the door.” 

“What do you want, Watson?”

“I want to get inside the apartment I live in. Open the damned door.”

“Where did you go? Go to tell Mycroft on me?”

“No. I went on a holiday for a few days. I played cards, drank too much and danced with pretty women.”

I heard him moving around. Mrs. Hudson tiptoed up the steps with a tray with some tea, some breads and jams. When he opened the door, he looked like hell. He was in his dressing gown and it was dirty, as if he’d worn it for a month. His hair was in disarray and he had several days’ growth of beard. His eyes were wild as they were when he’d been at his seven percent solution of cocaine. I might have known he’d pull such a stunt if I left him for too long in the middle of a case.

I took the tray from Mrs. Hudson and entered the room. I placed the tray on the table and turned to Holmes. 

“Can’t I leave you alone for more than a day without this senselessness?” 

“I have been thinking!” 

“No. You’ve been avoiding thinking and you’ve been pouting. Now it’s time to get your head cleared up and clean yourself up.”

He looked like a petulant toddler when he said, “Or what?” 

And I answered in childish kind. “I’ll send for Mycroft.” 

It worked and he backed down, visibly shrinking as he sat back on the sofa. He looked at the food and tea and finally poured himself a cup of tea. 

“So are you over your tantrum?” He asked me and I laughed at him. 

“I’ve not been the one locked up in a drugged stupor for days! Do you know how aggravating you are sometimes?” 

He nodded. “I got bored. The Ripper is boring because all we do is wait. Wait for him to kill, wait for him to write, wait for him to give himself up.”

“Perhaps he is done and will not strike again. We may not find him but as long as he does not kill again, I think I can live with that.”

“He’s not done. He has our attention finally.” 

I stopped what I was going to say and looked at him. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that this is all just to get our – my attention. He has it. He’s not done yet though. He means to show me who is the smarter of us – him or me.” 

I opened my mouth and closed it. Was this just some crazed idea that his drug addled brain had come up with to entertain itself? No, Holmes might be a bit odd at times but he was not crazy nor was he so paranoid that he’d imagine this. If he believed that this killer was doing this for his attention, then there was merit in the idea and some truth to it somewhere. 

I was just not yet sure how or even if that might benefit us in our hunt for him. 

*   
~~~~~


	10. Mary Jane Kelly

Chapter Ten – Mary Jane Kelly 

Holmes and I did not speak of his revelation for several days. The end of October came and went with no more killings and Whitechapel began to relax a little. The rest of London had been assured that no one outside the area was in danger anyway, a comfort to the rest of the city, if a bit of an insult to Whitechapel itself. 

Holmes and I talked little of the case since it was at a stalemate as far as new evidence was concerned. The police were throwing about more names in their ever growing pool of suspects. Never mind that most of them were preposterous candidates. At least to the public it looked as if they were doing something. 

I was awakened very late on the morning of November 9th by someone beating on the door downstairs. Mrs. Hudson was not yet dressed so I threw on my robe and ran down the steps to the door. 

It was a very young policeman. 

“Come to Miller’s Court as quick as you can, sir. There’s been another one and it’s awful! They’re waiting for you there. Hurry!” 

I rushed back up the steps to find Holmes already dressed and combing his hair. By the time I dressed and we got there, it was sometime after noon. Policemen and onlookers were standing all about, milling around in what seemed a daze. 

Holmes and I walked up to the little room and looked in. No one had gone in yet but there was blood everywhere and I could see what I supposed were human remains on the bed. I saw piles of innards and other parts lying on the bedside table and all over the bed. 

“What are you waiting for?” I asked Lestrade, who had arrived before us. 

“They thought the bloodhounds were coming. But Commissioner Warren has resigned and no one is sending them. We have to get someone to break the door down. It’s locked from the inside.”

Commissioner Warren had resigned the day before as the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. He had been responsible for forcefully disbanding protestors at the “Bloody Sunday” riots at Trafalgar Square back in ’87 and had recently taken a beating in the press for his handling of the Ripper affair. 

The owner of the place, John McCarthy, finally broke down the door and though it never shows in the official reports, Holmes and I were among the first through the door of what can only be described as the slaughterhouse on Miller’s Court. 

She was on the bed with her head turned toward the window. The only recognizable parts of her face were the two dead eyes that seemed to reflect the horror of what happened in that room. The smell, dear God, the smell was nearly overwhelming even with the stench of garbage, coal and industry in Whitechapel. I opened my mouth to say something to Holmes but no words came out. Catherine Eddowes had been a practice run compared to this scene of pure terror. 

Holmes said nothing either and seemed to have no reaction at all. 

The room was blazing hot as something had been burned in the fireplace, something that smelled like cloth. A pair of women’s boots sat in front of the fireplace and what may have been the woman’s clothes were folded neatly in a chair. 

On the bed lay what was left of Mary Jane Kelly. Mary had lived here on Miller’s Court and occasionally plied her trade as a prostitute. She’d last been seen last night by some neighbors who’d heard her singing as she was wont to do. She would sing no more. 

The killer had not been hurried this time and had taken all the time he needed to carve her up. He’d cut her face beyond recognition, skinned it and slit her throat almost to the bone. Then he’d done his real work, removing almost all her insides and placing them all about the room. He’d cut her breasts off and left them with some of her intestines on a table. He’d skinned her here and there aside from her face and there were cuts all over both arms and both legs as well as her the backs of her hands. 

Mary Jane Kelly had not let him kill her as easily as he’d killed the others. She’d fought hard, as evidenced by all the cuts on her hands and arms. But she’d lost her battle and had paid with her life. 

I could not tell yet but I suspected that some of her organs would be found missing when the doctor had taken her away for a postmortem examination. 

Drs. Bond and Phillips were on the scene too and came into the room right after Holmes and myself. They looked around as we had and Bond began to write down what he saw. He looked as horrified as I had. 

“Who would do such a thing?” Bond muttered to himself as he moved closer to the bed to see just exactly what condition the body was in. 

I looked around and Holmes was examining the window and looking at the floor and such. I wondered what he was thinking. He did not seem to be upset but then I’d never seen him show much emotion either way. 

A large crowd was gathering outside Miller’s Court and even more people were crowded in the area where the room was. Police were questioning all the people that lived nearby and others were trying to keep the onlookers and gawkers back a ways. I had no idea how they were going to get any usable information out of such a crowd. 

I found Lestrade and told him that Holmes and I would like to talk to any witnesses and I’d like to be there when the doctor got her back to the morgue and did his postmortem. He said that the Metropolitan Police would be glad of our help and that he’d message us as soon as he knew something. 

I made my way outside and followed Holmes to a quieter place.

“Is this what you were expecting?” I asked, my voice sounding angry even to my own ears. 

“Yes, it was. I will tell you now. These killings, this Ripper business, has all been done for one purpose. It is a challenge and an insult aimed at one person. Me.” 

*  
~~~~~


	11. Holmes' Theories

Chapter Eleven – Holmes’ Theories

I was fairly sure that Sherlock Holmes had finally lost his mind entirely and I told him so in some very colorful language. He held a hand up and smiled indulgently. I hated him when he did that to me. 

“I am not insane, Watson. None of this made any sense from the beginning. The first two murders we took no note of or if we did, we did not get involved. The third may or may not have been our man but the fourth one was in the City of London’s police jurisdiction thus bringing our intrepid Investigator Lestrade into it.”

“Coincidence, Holmes, nothing more.” 

“Not this time. This came while you were gone on your - sabbatical.”

He handed me a folded letter.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_We are very happy to have you working the case of the Whitechapel Ripper, or Saucy Jack, if you prefer. We were so hoping you’d notice and agree to play. Bloody lot of work to get your attention though._

_Catch us if you can.  
_

“We?”

“Well, I think ‘we’ are the killer and his employer.” 

“Employer? You think someone would do this for money?”

“Dear Watson, there is always someone who will do anything for money. Everything can be bought and paid for.”

“But why are they after you?” 

“How many bank robberies and embezzling schemes of one sort or another have we foiled?” 

“Quite a few but I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

“I think I have come to the attention of someone very dangerous and that he or they have taken an interest in us.” 

I felt a shiver run down my spine. I couldn’t imagine someone so evil that he would do these things simply to get someone else’s attention. There had to be more to it than that. Holmes must be wrong. 

We returned to Baker Street where I found myself pacing restlessly. What I saw today was worse than anything I’d seen in war or in a hospital. I’d been to slaughterhouses and no animal there was ever treated with such disregard as poor Mary Jane Kelly. 

I was still sure that Holmes was mistaken. 

Late in the afternoon, Inspector Lestrade came calling on us. He said that he had a written summary of all the interviews with those who’d seem Mary Jane Kelly out and about on the last days of her life. 

“She had a man, a Joseph Barnett. He provided for them both when he had work but he’d moved out because he was out of work. He still saw her every day and says he saw her the night of the murders.”

“Did he know why anyone would kill her?” 

“No. He said she was a sweet girl.”

Lestrade handed Holmes the papers and left us. Holmes took a stack and handed me the other half.

“Read.” 

We sat quietly and began to read the scribbled notes. 

“Listen to this: A tailor on Dorset Street said he saw Mary Jane only about half an hour before she was found. Said he’d seen her last night and then he saw her again this morning.”

“She was most certainly dead by that time. It took more than his customary fifteen minutes for our man to do all the things he did to Mary Jane Kelly.” 

“There is another person, a woman named Maxwell, who says she saw her at about 8:30 this morning.” 

At the second report, Holmes raised his head and looked at me. “Did you see what was in the fireplace?” 

“It looked like burned clothing to me and it was very hot as well.”

“I think our killer may have left in Mary Jane Kelly’s dress.”

“But could a man fit in her dress?” 

“From what I could tell, she was about the same height as the man that witnesses saw at the other killings. She was not slender, I don’t think. So it might be possible for a man to wear her clothes.” 

“Her clothes were folded in the chair.” 

“Maybe she had more than one set or maybe they belonged to one of her friends. According to one witness, another girl stayed with her sometimes when she didn’t have a place to stay.” 

“Will that help us find him?” 

“No but it gives us more information, more data and if we are to find him, then data is the thing that will get us there.” 

I thought of my friend yelling ‘I must have data’ in one of his cocaine induced manias and said nothing. He could figure out things quickly that would have taken me years to figure out so there was little I could say about his method and by tacit agreement, I said little about his cocaine use either. 

The drug was legal and embraced by men like Dr. Sigmund Freud in Vienna as a wonder drug. All I saw as another crutch that had the possibility to change a person’s behavior and impede their thinking processes. This, to me, was not a positive thing. Holmes assured me that he used it only when bored and so far, that had been true on his part. 

“What sort of data do we need? We’ve seen the murder scenes, we’ve read the eyewitness accounts and we’ve seen the poor women or seen their postmortems. This man has left us almost nothing to go on. He’s about average and might have a mustache. That’s half of Whitechapel, maybe more than half. Holmes, I’m a little too tall but I fit the description of the killer as well as anyone.” 

Holmes arched a brow at me. “Well, did you do it, Watson?” 

“Of course not!” 

“Then there’s one we can mark off. I believe that the man who is running the operation will leave us something or send us something. He wants us to hunt him or he’d have never sent me that note.” 

“That makes it sound easy - ”

“Rest assured, Watson. Easy is the last thing it will be.”

*  
~~~~~


	12. The Postmorten and Inquest

Chapter Twelve – The Postmortem and Inquest

We decided to go back to Miller’s Court the next day. It was still a circus. People were selling tickets to see where the murders had taken place. The police had blocked off the main entrance to Miller’s Court so some of the more enterprising residents sold window views from their own homes. There seemed to be no shortage of people willing to pay either. 

We did not have any trouble getting in since we’d managed to enlist Inspector Lestrade to escort us. He had friends in the Whitechapel division of the Metropolitan Police and they helped us get into the room one more time. 

We went in the doorway with the broken door opened now permanently by a policeman’s ax. We checked the fireplace. There was a fused wad of cloth still lying in the grate. We could also see where the hook that stood out for a teapot and the kettle lay in the ashes, and the kettle’s spout melted away by the heat. There was a candle stub on the table and a few bottles and boxes of food in a small cabinet. 

“The fire had to be awfully hot to melt the metal spout.” 

“Hard to tell what was burned,” Holmes agreed but he poked around in the cloth anyway. “A bit thick to be a dress. A coat maybe.” 

He turned to the bed and pointed to the wall at what could have been blood spatter and run down or could have been something entirely more sinister: the letter M. 

“Do you think it is anything?” I asked. 

“Not sure… it looks like it could simply be some blood that dripped down the wall.” 

“Does it look like an M?” 

“Yes… if it is anything at all.” 

We examined everything more closely and saw what a small and pitiful little room Mary Jane Kelly had lived in. There were a few cups and a plate by the fireplace. Miss Kelly did most of her eating in pubs evidently and had few possessions at all. According to those who knew her, she was young and sang a lot when drunk; she was pretty and had several friends among the denizens of Whitechapel. But all that was left of her now was her ravaged body and a few trinkets in this tiny room. 

We left Whitechapel without another word. 

There was a message that Dr. Bond was ready to do his postmortem and I was invited to attend if I wanted to. There were three other doctors in attendance as Dr. Bond began by looking at her and at the container that held the loose parts that had been strewn around her body and on the table beside the bed. We all assisted as need be and inventoried her wounds as well as the parts. He had not only disemboweled her; he had skinned her in places too. We found kidneys, liver, bowels, breasts, and skin but one thing was missing from her body and from the collection of parts. 

Jack the Ripper had taken Mary Jane Kelly’s heart. 

Holmes did not go to the autopsy, going instead on another of his mystery errands. He awaited me in a cab when I was done. I couldn’t shake the sadness nor the anger at what I’d just seen. 

“Holmes, the bastard took her heart with him when he left.”

Holmes took that bit with the calm which he took most everything. 

“Where did you go?” I asked him, not actually expecting an answer. 

“I went to the police station. I went to look at the evidence they have and to return the papers that Lestrade brought to us. The inquest is tomorrow but I don’t think there will be anything new there. I think we may go just to see who is in attendance.”

“You think the killer will be there?” 

“Not really but stranger things have happened. I am more interested in who else might show up.” 

“You still think that someone is behind these murders, someone is hiring a killer to do them?” 

“I do. I would stake my reputation on it. As a matter of fact, I have done just that by taking this case.” 

“But why is he doing such inhuman things to them? Why isn’t he just killing them?” 

“To fool us. To make fools of us.” 

I have to admit that I was beginning to think that Holmes was completely insane about this case by continuing to insist on his theory. Why on earth would he think such a thing? We solved a few cases for Scotland Yard and we’d even put a few extortionists and thieves away but this? Nothing we had done was big enough to attract the attention of someone evil enough to kill all these women just to tease Holmes. Was it?

Holmes always did think about himself before anyone else but this was something else all together. Was he somehow believing that everything that happened involved him personally? Maybe I needed to talk him into going to Austria to talk to this Freud, who was doing all sorts of things with the human psyche. 

We went to the inquest the next day. Only seven people gave testimony and it only lasted a few hours. It would seem there was little to say about the life or death of poor Mary Jane Kelly. In any event, Holmes seemed to be more interested in the audience than in the inquest itself. After it was done and we were on our way home, he seemed to be innervated, excited and I couldn’t figure out why. 

“What is it? What has you in this state?” I finally asked. 

“Did you see the man on the next to last row?” 

“What man?” 

“He sat by himself on the left side of the room on the next to last row. He was a math professor once. I met him once at a party given by one of the faculty at the university. He has, as far as I can tell, no connection to these women at all.” 

“Perhaps he was just curious. Like us. Do you know what his name is?” 

“Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”

*  
~~~~~


	13. Watson the Ripper

Chapter Thirteen – Watson the Ripper 

I had never heard of Professor Moriarty and I was not seeing any connection or reason that he interested Holmes at all. 

“Why was he there?” I asked. 

“I wish I knew,” Holmes answered, deep in thought already. He spoke no more on the ride home and after we got home, he went to his room and closed the door. A few minutes later, the violin began its painful screeching and did not stop for the rest of the day. I finally left to get away from the noise.

I found myself in Whitechapel again. I got out of my cab and began to walk. I walked to each and every murder site. There was nothing left to see at the first four anyway but I visited them nonetheless, trying to see if I could feel anything, could glean anything new from them. 

I do not believe in ghosts or any of that spiritual nonsense that is becoming popular here in England but I swear that I could feel the sadness and despair of the women who died as I visited the scenes of their murders. Maybe it was just the desolation of the area that I was feeling but I could feel hopelessness and resignation wash over me as I moved from one place to the next. 

They had all been middle aged, all prostitutes with little prospect of improvement in their sad lives, all but Mary Jane Kelly, who’d been young and still pretty. But her road was heading downward too, to the same place the other women were already. 

No one deserved what they’d gotten. I did not believe Holmes’ farfetched idea that it was all done for his benefit. Sometimes Holmes’s self centeredness made me angry, as it was doing in this case. I felt that the man who killed them hated them for what they were, for their determination to keep going, no matter how bad their lives were. 

The last place I came to was Mary Jane Kelly’s little room. It was the saddest of all to me. It was also the most bizarre. Why had he changed the way he did things? Was it simply opportunity? Or was it even remotely possible that Holmes was right and this one was a grand gesture to keep him involved in the case? 

I stayed until darkness set in, until those unfortunate women began their nightly trek from one pub to another to attract customers for their pitiful craft. There were a few pretty women in the ones I saw, the ones who stopped me and asked me if I had a need to be filled for a few coins. Most were aging and showed it. I could smell the gin on some of them before they even approached me. 

I offered nothing to them for their services or even for charity. I simply shook my head and moved on. I was coming out of Miller’s Court when a policeman stopped me. 

“What are you doing here?” He was openly hostile.

“Walking, constable. I’m having a walk.”

“I’ll wager a fine fellow like you has no decent business here. You need to find another place to walk.” 

It was beginning to dawn on me that he thought he’d caught the Ripper. 

“My name is John Watson and I’m an associate of Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I’m the Queen’s nephew! I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in.” 

I decided not to fight him, or argue further. I was not the Ripper and he’d know that soon enough. I went with him to the lockup and sent a message to Mrs. Hudson. I was put in a cell with two large drunken fellows who seemed to think that fighting me might make them feel better about themselves. 

Before they could do anything more, I was removed from the cell and a policeman that I didn’t know took me into a small room and set me down at a table. He sat down across from me.

“Did you know Mary Ann Nichols?” 

I answered no and he went through the whole list, even adding a few that Holmes and I had decided were not Ripper killings. I said no to each and every one. 

“Then why did you kill them?”

“I didn’t. I’m John Watson from 221B Baker Street. I have been investigating the case in an unofficial capacity with Sherlock Holmes. I came down here late today to look at the murder scenes one more time and it got dark before I realized how late it was.”

“What did you do with Mary Jane Kelly’s heart?” 

I sighed and stopped talking. He did not stop asking questions, however. 

“What do you carry in your parcel? How many women have you killed? Would you write your name for us?” 

I simply sat there with my arms crossed and said nothing. The policeman asked and asked and his face got redder and redder as he talked. I wondered if he might die of a stroke soon if he did not calm himself somewhat, but I said nothing. 

“Dammit, man! Answer me!” He rose up behind the table and leaned close to me. 

“I told you who I am and why I was here. It is easy enough to check and you have not bothered so I will say no more, Sergeant White.” 

And I said no more. He tried the questions again and when I ignored him, he had me returned to my cell. 

“So are ye the Ripper?” One of my cellmates asked me. 

“Not today. Are you?” I shot back. 

He grinned a toothless grin and said, “Nah, it’s not a knife I like to stick in the ladies, if ye get my meanin’.”

I did. I suppressed a shiver of disgust. 

I was evidently not much fun to play with as my cellmates stopped bothering me and went about their own business. I sat on the hard bench and waited. 

I checked my watch and it was after 10:00 pm when I heard a commotion out front. No sooner had I stood than Mrs. Hudson marched back to my cell. 

“Let him out now!” She was furious, angrier than I’d ever seen her, even when Holmes had done something to upset her. 

The constable mumbled something I didn’t understand and she shot back. “I already told you who he is and why he’s here. Are you going to let him out or do I need to contact your superior at home at this time of night?” 

I was actually enjoying the show. 

About that time, a second ally showed up in the person of Inspector Lestrade. He had no jurisdiction here but apparently he’d heard I had been jailed. 

“White, let this man go. He’s John Watson and he and Sherlock Holmes are working for the City Police Commissioner.”

“What was he doing out at night?” 

“I told you that I was walking. I came here to look at the murder sites again.”

Sergeant White looked as if he were going to balk but in the end, he unlocked the cell and let me out. 

“It’s about time!” I said to Lestrade when we got outside. 

“I am sorry but I was out and did not get your message until a few minutes ago.”

I looked at Mrs. Hudson. “Why are you here?” 

“Holmes said he’d just fetch you in the morning. I didn’t want you to have to sleep with those… those men! You might catch something!” 

I was touched by her devotion and her stubbornness in the face of Holmes. I might just give him a piece of my mind when we got home. 

*  
~~~~~


	14. The Game is Afoot

Chapter Fourteen – The Game is Afoot

Holmes was surprised when Mrs. Hudson showed up with me in tow. 

“You’re an awful man, Sherlock! You should be ashamed!” 

She fussed over me and brought me tea and some biscuits after she’d had a bath run for me. She would not leave until I was tucked safely in my bed. 

Holmes did not come into my room but neither did he go to bed. I heard him rambling about until I fell asleep sometime in the wee small hours of the morning and I did not awaken until the sun shone in my window. 

I am not sure he ever slept for he was up when I arose. He was reading the papers, the classifieds to be specific. He looked at me when I walked in and sat at the table. There was hot tea ready. 

“Mrs. Hudson just brought tea for you. She said if I wanted any, I could make it myself.”

I had to smile at Mrs. Hudson’s thoughtfulness. What a dear. I poured a cup and looked at Holmes. 

“Anything of interest in the paper?” 

“I’m just beginning to read this one but so far, nothing in the others.” 

“What are you looking for?”

“I think we will be contacted soon and I do not intend to miss it.” 

“By whom?” Jack had sent messages directly to people, not taken ads out in the classifieds. 

“Our killer, of course.”

“You still think he’s out to impress you?”

Holmes nodded. 

I shook my head and left to see some patients. 

I returned to Baker Street late in the day. Holmes was out but had left me a note. 

_Meeting a man about our friend. If not back by dinner, advise Lestrade that I am missing._

I puzzled over what he meant and finally decided that he was still pursuing the hired killer angle and had gone to get more information on who he thought might be doing this. I was clueless but Holmes often told me only what he wanted me to know. This one, however, he was playing closer than usual. 

As it turned out, he was back shortly after I came in. 

He was pouring over the evening editions of the papers. There were more suspects being hauled in every day and none of them seemed to be the right man. London, especially Whitechapel, was holding its breath, ready for another one. 

Holmes showed me a tiny ad in the classified section: _My dear friend, stop eating your heart out. It’s over and all’s that left is the curtain._

“What do you make of it?” Holmes asked me. 

“Sounds like a jilted lover to me.” 

“Does it?” 

“Obviously it has more meaning to you. What does it say?”

“He’s telling me the killings are done. I must find him before he leaves London.” 

“So where do we start? I am still not really convinced that you’re right in this case. It makes no sense.” 

“Watson, when I have been gone, I have not gone to visit Mycroft, as you well know.”

I nodded, waiting for him to go on. 

“From the beginning, when Lestrade bade us join the investigation, something seemed odd to me. As horrendous as the killings are, they are not personal. These were random victims of opportunity, more or less. While I realize there is a certain type of killer who does this, these are not done by one of those.”

“Why?’

“They are too contrived, too obvious. The killer kills two women and I take no notice at all. He sends letters to the papers and kills again. Instead of killing in Whitechapel, he makes sure to kill Catherine Eddowes in the police jurisdiction of London City Police thus bringing Inspector Lestrade into the mix and with Lestrade comes Sherlock Holmes. He stopped for a month to let us stew in our own juices then gave us the grand finale. Now he waits for me to find him, to solve the case.”

“What does he get out of it?” 

“The game. Watson. It’s all a game.”

“Who would play such a game though? 

“A man who is bored with the normal and seeks something beyond that.” 

“So where have you been?” 

“I have been visiting various contacts that I have in the criminal element of London. They all say that there has been an upswing in crime, especially crime having to do with large sums of money.” 

“And do they know why?” 

“It would seem that someone is organizing criminals, someone who has managed to do this without one group knowing of the other and no one group seems to know who the boss is either. He has underlings who do his bidding and no one ever sees him.”

“And what is his goal?” 

“Money? Power? Enjoyment? Who can say unless they ask him? Maybe he’s just bored.” 

“Like you?” 

“Exactly! Maybe he is someone who has a superior intellect and is bored with life on a daily basis. Maybe he is looking for some stimulation.”

“And killing and slaughtering women is stimulating?” 

“No, of course not. Besides, _he’s_ not doing the killing. He’s looking for a playmate, an adversary to offer him some challenge.”

“And that’s where you come in?”

“Yes. That’s where I come in. He knows me from the papers and perhaps we have inadvertently broken up some of his crime rings when we’ve shut down an embezzler or caught a bank robber. He has decided that he wants me and the murders are his way of inviting me to come out and play.” 

“Do you know him?”

“I have a suspicion. Remember when I told you about the man who was at the inquest, a mathematics professor?”

“Yes, Moriarty or something was his name. What does a math professor have to do with any of this?” 

“His name is James Moriarty and he is a brilliant man. While a mathematics professor at Leeds College, he wrote a treatise on the Binomial Theorem and has even published a book called _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_. But academics became boring to him and he left the university under a cloud of mystery and dropped out of sight for several years.” 

“When did he surface again?” 

“At the inquest into the death of Mary Jane Kelly. He came there to see me. And to let me know that the game is afoot.”

*   
~~~~~


	15. Waiting and Waiting

Chapter Fifteen – Waiting and Waiting 

Holmes never changed his mind once it was made up unless incontrovertible scientific fact said that he was wrong and I knew he wouldn’t change it this time. Besides, he was right much more often than he was wrong. 

“So we wait?’ 

“Yes, we wait for more messages from him. This was just the opening salvo.”

“What did he mean by ‘it’s over’ then?”

“The killings are done. At least the Ripper killings. Now it’s on to the next phase.” 

“Which is?” 

“I expect he wants us to try to catch him while he tries to kill us.”

“Well that is nice to know. I suppose we must catch him before he does this then.” 

Holmes nodded and smiled. “That appears to be the idea.”

“And us means?” 

“Probably you and Mrs. Hudson. He wouldn’t go after Mycroft unawares. So it will be you two.” 

I sighed. “Should we send Mrs. Hudson to Mycroft for protection?”

“Do you think she would go, Watson? She’s as stubborn as you are.”

We decided the best thing to do was to carry on. Moriarty would think he’d already defeated us if we ran and hid from him and I wasn’t about to start hiding now. There would be no reason to let the police in on our secret, they’d just try to hang the murders on me or Holmes and that was the last thing we needed. Or they’d think we were crazy, which might not be far from the truth, as far as I could tell. 

Holmes did actually go visit Mycroft at this time. If we failed in the ‘game’ then someone would need to know what had happened to us and would need to figure out a way to punish James Moriarty for his crimes. 

Now that we were ready or thought we were, life got very quiet and very routine. Even though we said nothing to Mrs. Hudson, one or both of us tried to be around the house as much as we could. I still had patients to attend to and some shifts at the hospital but Holmes stayed in most of the time, which was his usual habit anyway. Only a very interesting case or a night at the opera would get him out of the house. 

I must be honest. I thought that it was over and that maybe Holmes really had imagined all of it. The message in the classifieds was not directed to us specifically and I’d never seen this man, Moriarty, so maybe it was just a flight of fancy on Holmes’ part. 

Days passed and nothing happened; days turned to weeks. London was still in the grip of Ripper fever though Jack had not struck again. There were still suspects being questioned and rumors flying that it was everyone from one of the witnesses to someone high in the government or royal family who’d killed all those women in Whitechapel to cover up some indiscretion.

Holmes did not relax though I did. He still combed the papers every day for something from Moriarty and he still carried a gun when he went out. I have to admit that I almost always carried mine and had since getting back from Afghanistan, but being armed was unusual for Holmes. 

November passed quietly as did December. Every time someone was killed in the East End, it was said to be the Ripper though neither the police nor Holmes thought they were. I had to agree. The East End was a violent and dangerous part of London any time and now that everyone was jumpy and frightened of the Ripper, it was even more so. 

There were articles in the paper about all sorts of suspects. One even mentioned a Russian anarchist who’d formerly killed prostitutes in Paris then moved on to London to ply his grisly trade but I never read that he was caught or even questioned. 

After the first of the year, I read an article about a man named Montague John Druitt who had been fished out of the River Thames on December 31st and identified by his brother. He’d supposedly died about four weeks previously and there was some hint that some at the Metropolitan Police felt he was the murderer since he’d just lost his job as a teacher and he feared that he’d inherited insanity from his mother. I could see no connection though rumors to this day abound in London. 

Another memorable thing happened on New Year’s Day, 1889. Tucked into the classified section of one of the smallest papers in London was a notice: _To my dear friend, the heart wants what the heart wants, does it not? Perhaps we can find YOUR heart’s desire soon._

I was the one who found it and even though it seemed to be an innocuous note about love, a chill ran through me. I knew as soon as I read it that it was from him; whether that was simply a murdering fiend or Holmes’ criminal genius didn’t even matter at this point. 

“Holmes, read this.” 

He was reading another paper and looked at me, irritated at first then I handed him the paper and pointed to the note. He read it quickly. 

“I do think our man has contacted us again. I do not, however, know what he means.”

“Can he be referring to Miss Kelly’s heart?” 

“Of course he is. He’s rubbing our noses in it, I dare say.”

“Holmes, I want to catch this killer.” I was angry and getting tired of the whole thing.

“Watson, I want to catch Moriarty. The killer is just a cog in the wheel.” 

“But the killer is the monster who did these things,” I argued. 

“And Moriarty is the man who paid him and told him exactly what to do. Moriarty had someone pen the Jack the Ripper letters and the one From Hell as well just to tease us. He did this all as a game. I find that much more fiendish than a string of murders.”

I did not agree. What kind of man would do these things for money? Over the next few years, I’d find that there were people who would do most anything for money. This was just my first real experience with it. 

It would not be my last.

*  
~~~~~


	16. The Kidnapping

Chapter Sixteen – The Kidnapping 

After the initial excitement of the letter wore off, things settled back down into routine yet again. We were still vigilant but it was hard to stay as alert as we needed to be when life was so very normal. 

On the other hand, it was also rather unnerving to spend all of my time waiting for something horrid to happen to someone I cared about. Mrs. Hudson was no fool and never had been. She knew that we were after Jack the Ripper and she knew that something more sinister than that was going on with Holmes. She stopped even trying to go out without me and my trusty Webley accompanying her. 

January passed and February arrived. Ripper fever was winding down a little though there were still reports in the papers of suspects and witnesses. It seemed that everyone in all of Britain had met with Saucy Jack at least once and all were anxious to tell someone. And the police still seemed anxious to accommodate them. 

On the fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day, we read this in the paper:  
 _Has someone stolen your heart? Would you like it back?_

I wasn’t sure this one was for us but Holmes was. The notes were sounding more ominous all the time. We decided to go to the paper that printed it and ask about the message.

“Are you the person who takes the messages for the classified ads?” I asked the young man who let me into the office. 

“I am he. If you’ll just write it on this paper, it’ll go in the morning edition tomorrow.’

“Actually, I am more interested in someone who came in and placed an ad yesterday.” 

“Yesterday was busy, what with Valentine’s Day coming and all.”

I showed him the ad. “That one came in by courier. A boy no bigger than this,” he held his hand about three and half feet off the floor, “brought it in already wrote out. Just like that. He paid for it and left.”

I sagged. Nothing there then. 

I was reading the evening papers and waiting for Holmes to finish an article so we could switch papers when I heard someone knocking on the door downstairs. I got up and started over to our door to open it and peep out when I heard Mrs. Hudson scream. 

I dropped the paper and ran down the steps. She stood there on the landing, still screaming and staring at what lay on the floor in front of her. 

It was a box with a heart inside it. 

A human heart. 

I grabbed her and pulled her into my arms as Holmes arrived at the bottom of the steps. 

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson. I’m here,” I murmured to her.

Holmes asked me with his eyes if the heart was what he thought it was. I nodded and kept my arms around Mrs. Hudson. 

Holmes retrieved the box and its contents and hurried up the steps with them while I escorted Mrs. Hudson to her own kitchen. 

I found a bottle of whiskey and poured her a little in a glass. 

“Drink this slowly. It will calm your nerves a little.”

“Mr. Watson, was that what it looked like?” 

“I think it might have been.” 

“Whose?”

“That I do not know. I think I will stay down here tonight. I can stay in the sitting room.” 

“I’ll be fine. I just need to calm myself a bit. I suspect the whiskey will help.” She smiled weakly and held her empty cup out for a bit more. 

I stayed anyway, setting myself up in her rocking chair after she went off to bed. The serving girl didn’t live there and had already gone when the delivery was made. I had not asked her about the delivery yet; it could wait until the light of day. 

When I did ask Mrs. Hudson, she told me that it had been left on the doorstep and that one of the neighbors had seen it as she was coming home and knocked on the door then handed it to Mrs. Hudson and left to have supper with her daughter. 

I went upstairs after the girl came to help Mrs. Hudson. I told Mrs. Hudson to find one of us immediately if she needed anything. I smiled at the sweet kiss she gave me on my cheek before I left her. 

Holmes was sitting at the table with the heart on a plate in front of him. 

“Having breakfast?” I asked. 

“It has been preserved in alcohol. Not wine like the kidney sent to Lusk.”

“And you think it’s Kelly’s heart?” I asked, knowing his answer.

“Don’t you, dear Watson? Why else send us a heart?” 

I shook my head. Holmes might enjoy the challenge of the hunt but I surely was not enjoying this one at all. I will admit that I was beginning to believe Holmes’ version of things more and more. Whoever was doing this was enjoying himself immensely at our expense, something that was becoming intolerable. I hoped Holmes was becoming as fed up as I was but Holmes is nothing if not patient when it comes to his quarry. 

The problem was that I was beginning to feel like we were the quarry, not the other way around. 

That did not change when on February 20th, one of the Baker Street Irregulars, as we called Holmes’s band of street urchins, came running in the front door downstairs and took the stairs up in about three steps. It was little Dickie Trent. 

“Mr. ‘olmes! Doctor Watson! Redheaded Tom is gone! Somebody fetched him yesterday, said his mum were sick! And he ain’t nowhere today. His mum, she ain’t ailing and she said he never come ’ome!”

Holmes appeared calm but he wasn’t. I could tell the slight change in his voice, the way he looked at me. 

“Perhaps he went to play with some other boys and didn’t want to tell you and the others. Maybe he was afraid you’d get mad.”

“Not Tom, sir. Tom don’t like many on account of his red hair. They pick on him, sir. We’re used to it an’ never pick on him for that.” 

Holmes knew that telling the boy to go home would not be with keeping them safe. We weren’t even sure that Dickie had a home. 

I had an idea. Mrs. Hudson had a back room that she used for storage. It had no outside door and was warm and as safe as any place I could think of. I ran downstairs and asked her if the boys could stay a day or two. I promised that Holmes would pay for all they ate and anything they damaged. 

She smiled and patted my hand. “Mr. Holmes can pay if he likes but I’d take them in anyway. Sometimes they run letters to post for me or sweep the front steps. I’d be glad to help them. I’ll find blankets and pillows for them.” 

Not two hours passed and the whole lot of them showed up, even Wiggins, who was the ‘leader’ of the group and a little older than the others. 

We combed the papers but there was nothing that day. 

Not one word. 

The next day, we found it in the first one we checked.

_Dear friend, I’m afraid I’ve stolen your heart again! Unless you want it returned the way I returned the first one, come to the place where you lost it. He is getting impatient._

*  
~~~~~


	17. Back to the Streets

Chapter Seventeen – Back to the Streets

“Miller’s Court. That is where he is waiting for us,” Holmes said as he put the paper aside. 

“Let’s go.” 

“If we go in too quickly, we may find young Tommy in the same manner we found Mary Jane Kelly.”

I shivered at the thought. 

“We can’t just sit here.”

“No, we can’t, but we can’t leave Mrs. Hudson and the boys alone either. Moriarty surely has someone watching us. I shall send for Mycroft.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mycroft?”

“He will see that they are protected.”

“Your errand boys are sequestered. Who are you going to send?”

“I shall go myself. You wait here until Mycroft sends someone. The person will use the code word Meerschaum. If he doesn’t use that, shoot him. After the man comes to guard Mrs. Hudson and the children, you meet me at Miller’s Court.”

I didn’t like it at all. Holmes was putting himself in grave danger by insisting on doing this but what else was there to do? I seldom was able to persuade him to change his mind or his actions. 

So I agreed.

Holmes armed himself with his regular pistol, with another one I didn’t know he had, added a knife and left without another word. 

I went down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Around her dining room table were five boys ranging in age from eight or so to the oldest, Wiggins, who was a young teen. They all had full plates of breakfast sausages and bacon and eggs with rolls and jams. Mrs. Hudson was busy bringing more food to the table and looked up at me when I stepped into the doorway. 

I motioned for her to come to other room. 

“Oh, Dr. Watson, you might as well talk in front of them. They’ll listen at the door anyway,” she answered as she poured some milk for the smallest boy. 

“Very well, Holmes is out and I am leaving for awhile. Mr. Holmes’ brother is sending someone to watch over things here until we get back. I am waiting on his arrival to leave.”

I expected her to argue but she just nodded. “You and Mr. Holmes be very careful. I’ll never be able to find any renters for those rooms if something were to happen. Who’d want a place with holes in the wall?”

She referred, of course, to the bullet holes in Holmes’ chamber where he’d shot the letters ‘VR’ into the wallpaper in a fit of boredom. 

“I’ll tell him that,” I answered with a smile. 

I was reloading my Webley when someone knocked downstairs. I hurried down the steps and got the door. It was Mycroft Holmes and another very large man. 

“Meerschaum to you, my dear Watson!” Mycroft was certainly of good cheer. One would think he was sending me to a party instead of possible injury or even death. 

I knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and left her and her charges in his care. I took a cab to Whitechapel. It was bustling, as it was the middle of the day. The police no longer had the street condoned off so I could walk into Miller’s Court easily and I did so without anyone bothering me or even noticing me, it seemed. 

But things are not always like they seem. 

I walked over to the room that Mary Jane Kelly had been butchered in. The still broken door stood open. I took my weapon out of my pocket and walked into the room. Little had been disturbed but it _had_ been disturbed. Maybe someone had come to find souvenirs and taken some things. 

Then I saw the note on the table. The paper was old and brown, as if it had been there a long time. But it hadn’t. I looked at it. Written in the same hand as I’d seen before was this note: _The writing is on the wall, Dr. Watson_

I started to run for Goulston Street, the place where the bloody apron piece was found under a scribbled note about the ‘Juwes’. I found the place and there was another note for me. 

_No need to hurry now. I’m sure he’s lost his heart already!_

Looking back, I should have been afraid but I was angry, more than angry, enraged that this thing that called himself a man had the nerve to tease and make jokes after the horrible things he’d done. 

I had no idea where to go next but to the murder site that went with the apron, the place Catherine Eddowes was found at Mitre Square. I ran to that locale. There on the ground sat a pair of worn boy’s boots. 

Redheaded Tom’s boots. 

Where next? Berner Street? The next place on the list of sites? I ran again. My leg was aching as it does when I use it too much or when I’m very upset. I was glad I’d brought my cane as I hobbled along at a strange gaited run. 

As I stopped at the site, I saw him round the corner in front of me. Was it Moriarty? Was the killer a henchman? I pressed on and when I rounded the corner I saw – nothing!   
There were doors and such but nowhere to simply disappear so quickly unless he’d been ready for me. I stopped running and took a second to catch my breath. 

I began walking down the street slowly and scribbled on one door was this: Buck’s Row. Not the next one in the chain but what most considered the first one, Polly Nichols. I began to run again, hoping to finally find him. 

I remembered that someone lived near where she was found and I knocked on the door. A woman came to the door. 

“What d’ ya want?” She did not look at all pleased. 

“Have you seen a man and a redheaded boy about in the last few minutes?”

“I was havin’ me a nap. Now off with ya.” She closed the door in my face. 

I crossed to the Essex Wharf manager’s home and his wife said she’d seen nothing either. I decided the stable yard would be where I’d hide if that’s what he was doing. I slipped into the stable yard and looked around. One stable was open and the door seemed to be still moving a little. 

I took out my gun and walked slowly toward the stable. 

*  
~~~~~


	18. Jack the Ripper

Chapter Eighteen – Jack the Ripper

There he stood in the doorway of the stable. He looked like he’d been described. He was shorter than I am, about five foot eight, with sandy colored hair and moustache. He wore a sailors’ cap and short coat. His eyes were striking, a strange blue so light as to be almost transparent. And he was smiling at me. 

I pointed my pistol at him. 

“You’re Watson.” 

“You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

“You can call me Jack if you wish.” 

“And are you Jack?”

“Some of the time.” 

“Where is the boy?” 

“The redheaded boy? The boss has him. He’ll have your Holmes soon too but me, I get you, Dr. Watson.” 

Before I realized what was happening, he produced a knife. It was shiny and appeared to be about six inches long, sharp on both sides. 

“I’m not defenseless like all those women were.” 

“But I’m going to carve you up just the same.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.” I took a step toward him. “Why did you do it?” 

“The money was good and I like to use my knife. Pity he didn’t let me carve up the last one. I heard she was a sight.” He grinned and flashed the shiny blade at me. 

“Who did?” 

“Why, the boss himself did her. Said he did that one for Holmes.” 

“Well, I’m not going to let you kill me, whoever you are. Not this time.”

“I’m really good with this knife, Dr. Watson.”

“Not good enough, I think.”

He moved toward me. He was quick, very quick but my little pistol trumped his knife this time and I shot him. Right through the heart. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. I kicked the knife away and aimed the gun at his heart while I checked his pulse. 

Nothing. 

I looked around and saw no one so I dragged him into the empty stable and covered him with straw. I needed to find Holmes and young Tom. Then I’d come back for him. I headed back toward Miller’s Court. I would return for the body later. I left his knife with him. 

When I arrived at Miller’s Court, Holmes stood in front of Mary Jane Kelly’s room with little Tommy. The boy looked scared and held on tight to Holmes’ hand. 

“Ah, there you are, Watson. I was growing concerned.”

“Where have you been?” 

“I was chasing Moriarty. I got the child but I’m afraid Moriarty will have to wait until another day.”

“We need to send for someone to check the barn across from where the first woman was killed. I – the killer is there.”

“Alive?”

I shook my head, not wanting to go into detail in front of the boy.

“Our cab is still waiting. Maybe we should go.”

I nodded. We’d stop by the police station on the way back to Baker Street. The shock of what had just happened was beginning to set in. I’ve never killed many men but I have killed a few and it always leaves me rattled. To have had a knife wielding monster come at me was a second reason for the shock. I actually began to shiver. 

As it turned out, we did not stop by the police station. Holmes decided that I needed to go straight home and once there, he sent one of the boys out to fetch Lestrade. 

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with tea and fussed over me though she never even asked what the matter was. 

Lestrade arrived within the hour. 

“Are you sure it was him?” He asked when I told him my tale of Jack and his knife.

“As sure as I can be.”

“And you killed him?” 

“I checked. He’s dead.”

He asked a few more questions, clearly unsure if he believed me. He did say that he’d personally go to Whitechapel and check for the body. It was out of his district but he’d have a friend from the Metropolitan District accompany him. 

“I’ll send word when I return,” he said as he let himself out and departed. 

The boys were still downstairs and Holmes called down for them to come up. 

“Boys, you have done an extraordinary job this time. You took care of Mrs. Hudson and one of you was even in grave danger so you all will be paid a guinea this time in appreciation. Dr. Watson and I appreciate your bravery and your help.” 

He gave them all their money and sent them on their way. I was surprised at his kind speech though I refrained from saying so. The boys must have seen him as a titan by now and maybe he was. To them anyway. 

After we were alone, I finally asked him what I wanted to ask since finding him and little Tommy outside Mary Jane Kelly’s. 

“What happened to you? Where did you find the boy? Were you in danger?” 

Holmes sipped his tea and answered me.

“All in good time, my dear Watson. Perhaps you should rest first. You’re awfully pale.” 

I wanted to argue with him but he was right. The day had taken its toll on me. All that running had made my leg hurt and fear was beginning to set in as it often does after the actual danger has passed. I drank my tea and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. 

*  
~~~~~


	19. Professor Moriarty

Chapter Nineteen – Professor Moriarty 

It was quite dark when I awoke to the sound of Mrs. Hudson tapping on the door. 

“I have some dinner for you,” she called through the door. 

Holmes appeared from his bedchamber and let her in, even thanking her for bringing us food and tea. She had made us a platter of cold meats with bread for sandwiches and had sent a bottle of wine to go with it.

I realized that I was actually starving, not having eaten since breakfast. I stuffed myself quite well and had more than my share of the wine. 

Homes and I settled in for a smoke after dinner. He loaded his pipe while I had a cigar. I seldom smoked but today was surely an exception to the normal. The cigar soothed my nerves as the pipe seemed to soothe Holmes’. 

“All right, Holmes. Tell me what happened while I was chasing the man with the knife.” 

Holmes sat back in his chair and puffed on his pipe then he began to speak: 

_I sent Mycroft to Baker Street and headed for Miller’s Court. There was a light burning in the house when I arrived and the door was closed. Little Tommy Flynn was sitting at the table. He was tied up and gagged but otherwise unharmed._

_I looked around to make sure he wasn’t attached to some sort of trap or weapon then I untied him. He was actually very brave for a little boy, didn’t even cry. I had no choice but to take him with me when I set out to find Moriarty, who I was sure was waiting for me._

_He was actually watching me and he met us at the door with a pistol as Tommy and I stepped out._

_“So we meet at last, Mr. Holmes!”_

_“James Moriarty. We have met before, you know. Many years ago at the university.”_

_“So that **was** you then. I admit you were rather unimpressive.”_

_“You were quite the opposite, as I recall. The mathematical community was all aflutter over the young genius.”_

_He smiled at me._

_“Academia does not pay very well. I find that my skills are much more profitable now. I have many enterprises that pay quite handsomely and I never actually have to get my own hands dirty.”_

_Then he laughed very loudly._

_“Except in this case and I must admit that I really enjoyed the work. Did you? Did you and your lapdog enjoy the artistry of what I did to that filthy prostitute?”_

_I had suspected that he killed Mary Jane Kelly all along. She’d been butchered for show, to show me and you, Watson._

_“She was actually quite pretty for a doxy, wasn’t she? Oh yes, I forgot. She had no face when you saw her, did she?”_

_He motioned with the gun for us to go with him. We did. He herded us into a carriage. We started riding west. He sat facing us with the gun pointed at us._

_“It was so easy. She was willing almost until I cut her throat. Almost. She did fight me a little and yelped ‘Murder’ before I could shut her up. That just made it more fun.”_

_I wondered if he intended to kill us but figured that if he did, he’d do it there on Miller’s Court. He did seem to be awfully theatrical._

_“Capturing the boy was easy too. For street children, they surely are a trusting lot. Is that your fault? Are you compromising their safety with your little jobs?”_

_I said nothing. What was there to say? He had been watching me and all my acquaintances carefully for some time. That was quite apparent._

_“Your man Watson is dead by now. I sent my man with the knife to meet him when arrives. My man is very good. You’ve seen his work too. I was particularly pleased with the Eddowes woman. The kidney was a lovely touch, don’t you think?”_

_“What do you want with me?” I asked._

_“I want to show you what true brilliance is about. It’s not about universities or solving silly little crimes. It’s about power. The power to grant life or death to people you don’t even know. The power to control banks and shipping companies, politicians and businessmen – that, dear Mr. Holmes, is what brilliance is about.”_

_“Why bother with me?”_

_“You are trying to stand in my way. You have the potential to damage my empire, though I must admit, your hits so far are quite miniscule.”_

_I laughed at him. His face turned an ugly color but he made no move to harm me._

_We pulled up in front of a nondescript warehouse and he motioned us to get out. A man appeared from inside the warehouse to open the double doors and Moriarty motioned with his gun for us to go it._

_The warehouse was mostly empty but for a few tables set out in the middle of the floor. We moved closer and I saw his trophies. There were jars with body parts, many more than I could account for with the Whitechapel murders. There were hearts and other organs in jars as well as a finger or ear here and there._

_“Do you like it?”_

_“Not particularly.”_

_“I hope to put part of Watson here today. Maybe his hand since he’s a surgeon. Or his brain. That would make a nice specimen but his brain certainly is not up to par with yours. Maybe I shall wait for you to put a brain in my collection. Or perhaps I shall add it now?”_

_He grinned at me and for a moment, I was sure he was going to do just that, then he laughed and turned away._

_“No! I enjoy playing with you too much right now. Perhaps when I grow bored.” He motioned for his driver. “Take these tedious people back to Miller’s Court.”_

_He looked straight at me. “We will meet again, my friend. You can depend on it.”_

“And we were driven back to Mary Kelly’s house where you found us,” Holmes finished. 

“So he gets away?” 

“It would appear that he does this time. But I will catch him someday! That much I can promise you.” 

We were about to go to bed when someone knocked on the door downstairs. Mrs. Hudson let him in and I heard him climb the stairs. It was Inspector Lestrade. 

“How are you this evening?” He asked me in a sort of odd way. 

“I’m better than I was. What did you find? Did you get the body.”

Lestrade colored a little and cleared his throat. He started to say something then stopped. 

“Well, man, out with it,” Holmes said. 

“Dr. Watson, sir, there was no body in that stable. We looked over the whole barn and there was no body and no knife either.”

“I did shoot him. I assure you he was dead too.” 

“Well, if he was, then the dead walk because he was not there.” 

“You found no blood, nothing?” 

“Well, there was this one crumpled piece of paper but I don’t think it means anything.”

He handed me a wadded up, yellowing slip of paper that looked as if it were torn from a larger document. Scrawled on it were three words written in what looked like blood: _Until next time_

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bibliography: 
> 
> _Jack the Ripper: The Complete Casebook_ by Donald Rumbelow, 1988, Contemporary Books, Inc. 
> 
> _The Complete History of Jack the Ripper_ by Philip Sugden, 1994, Robinson Publishing, LTD. 
> 
> [**Casebook: Jack the Ripper**](http://www.casebook.org/index.html): A comprehensive Jack the Ripper site with a very complete history of the case, including photos, maps and news reports. 
> 
> [**Jack The Ripper 1888**](http://www.jack-the-ripper.org/): A good site as well, even allowing you to book Ripper walking tours for yourself when you visit London. 
> 
> I also read all the pertinent Wikipedia articles about the case, any modern news articles that came up on a search of ‘Jack the Ripper’ as well as watching several online documentaries. 
> 
> I did watch ‘From Hell’ after I finished writing as well.


End file.
